


Spilt

by raja815



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Drugs, Episode Related, M/M, Masturbation, Mirror Universe, S&M, Sexual Violence, Star Trek: AOS, star trek abridged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-01-17
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:38:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raja815/pseuds/raja815
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the mirror universe, McCoy recognized the spot on the table from the spilt acid.  Apparently it's there, no matter what universe he's in.  But, how exactly did the spot get there in the first place?  </p><p>...And why do we somehow get the feeling that Spock must've somehow been involved? </p><p>Variations on the scene of the acid-spilling in various universes (mirror, original, abridged, and reboot) ranging from nasty-kinky to stupid-cracky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Spilt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [colonel_bastard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/colonel_bastard/gifts).



> This began as a discussion between Colonel_bastard and myself as we were watching _Mirror, Mirror._ Colonel's theory was that, in Mirror!verse, the acid got knocked over while Spock was fucking McCoy over the table, while in the original!verse, "McCoy knocked the acid over while he was jerking off and thinking of Spock."
> 
> As I dearly love Colonel, I have written out these two scenarios. 
> 
> As I am also a silly, irreverent person at heart, I added two further joke variations: Reboot!Verse and Abridged!Verse. 
> 
> Reboot!verse refers to the world of the 2009 film.
> 
> Abridged!verse refers to [Star Trek Abridged](http://www.youtube.com/user/StarTrekAbridged), a hilarious fan dubbing project in which all the Enterprise crew does is "drop acid and fly around in space." Colonel and I like to think of it as its own parallel universe. It'll probably help if you've watched some of the dubs, but if you can't, suffice to know, it's a world of drugs and innapropriate sex. Abridged!SPock is a creepy nympho and abridged!McCoy is never not stoned on something.

"What is this? Everything's all messed up and changed around, out of place... No, not everything. That spot, I spilt acid there a year ago. Jim, What in blazes is this?"

-Dr. McCoy, _Mirror, Mirror_

* * *

****

 

Mirror!verse:

 

"Your reliance on these compounds has become excessive, Doctor." 

Spock's breath is hot against his lips, his eyes bare inches from McCoy's.  The Vulcan's hands are gripping the doctor's shoulders so tight, thumbs straining clavicles, fingers distending scapulae.  McCoy feels the trauma to his capillaries, and knows later, when he peels off his tunic, he will find the afterimage of the commander's hands bruised into his flesh in beautiful shades of purple and green.  With this knowledge comes the heart rate spike, the swell of his cock to full hardness.  Spock knows it, can see it, can smell it, probably, the little freak, and McCoy laughs and leers up from beneath him.

"We still talking about the acids?" He rolls his hips upward, grinding into Spock.

The Vulcan only inclines his head toward the full beaker on the tabletop.  

"According to the latest report, medical lab consumption of corrosive acids has increased by eighty-four point three-seven percent."

"Spare me the numerical bullshit," McCoy says.  He presses a knee up, sliding his leg between Spock's, feeling the strong cords of alien muscle against his thigh.  "I use those acids for synthesizing pharmaceuticals."

Spock pushes, and McCoy slams backwards onto the table.  Glass piping shatters, liquid in the beaker ripples, and a cavalcade of data cards goes crashing to the floor.  McCoy lies trapped beneath him, staring with pupils blown wide at Spock's cold gaze.  His breath hisses, his heart races, his cock throbs.  He can smell the dusky, coppery odor of Vulcan skin; hot, faintly gamey. Like an animal.

"It is well known that medical staff engages in monetary wagers on the pain tolerance of sickbay patients. Beginning six point two-four standard Terran days previously, you and your staff have applied the acids topically to patients as a means of augmenting pain. ‘Hedging your own bets,’ I believe."

"Don't talk to me about augmenting pain.  I've seen the way you watch the ensigns squirm in the agony booth." McCoy lifts a hand to Spock's cheek and scratches, slow and hard. Deep emerald lines paint the pale skin in the wake of his fingers.  "I know what gets that green blood hot."

"You are out of order, Doctor." He leans forward, and his gaze makes McCoy burn and freeze and burn again.  "Your staff's overindulgence has reduced our ship's overall efficiency rating, a fact which reflects poorly on the captain and myself.  It is intolerable, and it _will_ be rectified."

"You questioning the way I run my sickbay, Spock?"

"Affirmative.  I find your inventory management skills extremely lacking.”

McCoy arches up and licks the hot, dry Vulcan lips.

""I've got a copper enzyme derivative hypo that'd keep you hard for a week and a half," he purrs.  "How's _that_ for inventory management?"

A string of McCoy’s saliva glistens in Spock's beard, stretching and breaking as Spock shoves him down hard enough to crack his head against the worktable surface.

"You will instruct your staff to reduce usage of medical acids to their previous acceptable levels," Spock continues.  He squeezes again, only the right shoulder this time, almost hard enough to fracture.  The resulting flare of pain is so deep, so exquisite, that McCoy doesn't notice Spock's hand is no longer gripping, has moved between their bodies, is unfastening their uniform pants, until he feels his trousers being ripped away.  The air is cold against his his thighs, his dick, his ass.  The zipper pull breaks free and strikes the floor with a tiny metallic chime.

"Make me," McCoy gasps.  He reaches forward with his freed but damaged arm, muscles spasming, joint screaming.  He yanks Spock's uniform jacket open and parts the undershirt, squeezes a dark green nipple until it bruises in his grasp.  The corner of Spock's mouth gives the minutest twitch. 

"I intend to,” Spock says.

He flips McCoy over and penetrates him in one smooth, efficient motion.  

The slick, oily quality of Vulcan preseminal fluid precludes anal tearing, but does not dull the pain of muscle spasms.  McCoy cries out, reaching back to grab for Spock and finds his arm twisted up his back as reward for his effort; a new flavor of pain.  Paroxysms of agony zip through his body, sharp as nails and hot as Vulcan.  His erection thumps against the bottom of the table.

"You pointed-eared _bastard_ ," he gasps.  He thrusts back.  His skin stings, stretched tight around Spock's erection.  He thrusts forward.  His own pre-ejaculate makes his glans slide against the underside of the table.  Friction, back and forth, delicious friction that so perfectly compliments the pain.

"You will order your staff's compliance."

"Fuck me harder."

"I _command_ that you order your staff's compliance. I will not repeat myself again."

"Make it hurt.  Oh god Spock, _yes_ Spock, make it _hurt_ —"

"As you refuse to submit to orders, I will resort to stronger tactics."

Spock's hand darts down, quick as a cat, and the doctor feels the burn of an agonizer against his balls, feels his left shoulder buckle under increased pressure, feels himself stretched to the point of bleeding as Spock rams forward so hard their bodies clap together as if in wild applause.

"Oh, _fuck_ —" the doctor screams, and his body spasms, knocking into the beaker of acid.  It tilts, falls, shatters, splattering the desktop and his skin, and as the desktop smokes and his skin screams, he climaxes, striping the floor of the lab with semen as the blisters erupt on his skin.

"An unsatisfactory response," Spock observes.  He dips a finger in the acid and traces the shell of the doctor's ear.  McCoy gives a liquidy gasp as the flesh there smolders. "We shall repeat the exercise until your compliance is assured."

McCoy licks Spock's finger.  

"Your uniform has sustained significant damage," Spock observes, asMcCoy's mouth burns. "And your appearance is a disgrace to this ship. You will remove what remains of your clothing.  And you will get on your knees."

"Pointy-eared _bastard_ ," McCoy gasps, and slides to the floor, the hiss of acid burning in his ears and the taste of Spock a fire in his mouth.

* * *

****

 

Regular!Verse

 

Sitting at his chemical synthesizing table in sickbay with a half-empty glass of Saurian brandy in one hand and his dick in the other isn't what anyone could call _professional_ exactly, but hell, McCoy is a _doctor_ , not a goddamn _social etiquette expert,_ and anyway, it’s his goddamn sickbay. 

Besides, it’s all mostly Spock’s fault.

Anyone else would’ve just sent a PADD transmission. Spock came by in person, probably literally seconds after he’d read the quarterly efficiency report, after McCoy had already had a glass or two and was starting to feel a little… open to suggestion. And who besides Spock reads those things during downtime anyway? Even computers needed to reboot every once in awhile, but apparently not half-Vulcans.

God, why does _that_ turn him on?

_"It has come to my attention that your reliance on these compounds has become excessive, Doctor.” He swirls the little beaker of acid in his hand delicately, and places it on the lab table, where McCoy can't miss the accusation._

_McCoy's mouth quirks.  He tilts his head not toward the beaker, but toward the mostly finished glass of Saurian brandy in his hand._

_"We still talking about the lab?"_

McCoy sighs a little, tilting back in his chair to give himself more room. Jerking off while still mostly clothed might be a pursuit better left to the young, but McCoy finds that right now, he doesn’t care. If the goddamn uniform pants weren’t so tight...

_Spock's eyebrows go up.  "I informed you before we commended discussion that I wished to discuss medical lab inventory.  My intentions have not changed."_

_"...Joke, Spock.  Just making a joke.”_

_"Indeed?" Spock seems momentarily derailed by the simple fact that such an illogical concept as joking exists.  McCoy takes the opportunity to kill the glass in his hand._

_"Indeed," McCoy agrees, suppressing a hiccup.  He pours another.  "You want, Spock?"_

_"I do not.  Doctor, the fact remains that, as of the latest reporting period, Medical lab consumption of acids has increased by eight point three-seven percent."_

_"Eight point three se--?  Oh, spare me the numerical bullshit.  You know I use those acids for synthesizing pharmaceuticals."_

_"Beginning six point two-four standard Terran days previously, you and your staff have produced an amount of medications in excess to amounts prescribed.  The numerical deficiency has reduced our ship's overall efficiency rating, a fact which reflects poorly on the entire crew of the Enterprise.  I hope to see this rectified."_

FInally, zipper open, he strokes his dick through the soft synthetic fabric of Starfleet-issued briefs. The taste of the brandy is hot in hs mouth, the image of Spock clear as crystal behind his closed eyes. He'd just been standing there, talking calmly, long and tall and strong with that faintly self-satisfied lilt to his voice. _Smarter than you, stronger than you. Better than you._

McCoy moaned, and thrust upward. Goddamn, this job was making a sexual deviant out of him.

_"What's wrong with a little preemptive synthesizing?  Gives the med techs something to do, and next time there's an ion storm and half the crew is in here begging me for anti-nausea hypos I've got something to give them.”_

_"Nevertheless, the eight point three-seven percent--"_

_"You questioning the way I run my sickbay?"_

_"Affirmative.  To raise such a question was indeed the intended purpose of my visit.”_

_McCoy sighs.  "Can't believe you dragged me here after shift for a damn formal meeting about a lousy eight point whatever percent."_

_"Eight point three-seven--"_

_"Never mind.  I'll talk to the techs tomorrow."_

_"You will instruct your staff to reduce usage of medical acids once again to acceptable levels?"_

_"Sure as hell will," McCoy says with forced brightness, angry, but not so angry that he doesn't see the line of Spock's neck as he inclines his head to exit, the tight fit of the uniform trousers as he turns, the long, sleek_ alien _line of his body, briefly silhouetted in the doorway._

It shouldn't turn him on, sure as hell not so much that he'd do _this_ right here, in his lab, where anyone could come in, where someone is all but _sure_ to come in, but all he can think about is Spock, and how much he'd like to strip him down, lick that greenish skin and those strange ears, hold him, bend him over, show him what it meant to be _human._

...Or maybe he'd be the one to do the bending.

" _Spock_ ," he whispers through a ragged gasp, all but feeling the strong chest against his back, the hot breath against his neck, the slow, precise slide of penetration. "God, _Spock—_ "

The lab doors slide open.

"Doctor," says Spock, "I neglected to mention—"

" _Ahhck!_ " McCoy jumps, releasing his grip on himself as if he's been burned. The Saurian brandy flies out of his hand, the glass shattering on the floor, as his hand spasms toward his crotch to refasten his trousers. Instead, he bumps the lab table, and Spock's little beaker of acid tilts and tumbles, spilling a wash of fluid that immediately begins to sizzle and smoke, eating a mark into the surface of a table.

McCoy jumps away from the table before the acid can drip, and finds himself, with poorly-fastened pants, a flagging erection, a wash of brandy over his clothes, broken glass on his boots, and a puddle of acid dissolving the table.

It's silent for a moment.

"I had thought," Spock says, clearing his throat, "that spillage might account for at least some part of the excess consumption. I might recommend reviewing lab safety procedure. Do you require assistance?"

"Get the hell out of my sickbay," McCoy hisses, between his clenched teeth. His face is almost Vulcan-hot.

"Very well," Spock says, and actually turns to go. But he doesn't go, _of course._ It should be so simple.

"It appears your uniform has suffered... damage. If you require it, I can have the quartermaster deliver a new—" 

"I said, get out, Spock." McCoy sighs, and, for a wonder, he actually does.

"Pointy-eared bastard," he grouses, as the door swishes shut, and stumbles for the cleaning equipment.

* * *

****

 

Abridged!Verse

****

"Oh my god, is that seriously more acid?" Spock asks, glancing distastefully around sickbay. "You keep your acid _fucking everywhere._ "

"That's not acid, we already _dropped_ all the acid on this ship," McCoy says. It continues to confound McCoy that Jim's creepy telepathic on-again-off-again fuckbuddy still can't identify basic drugs by sight alone. "We're using that shit in our homemade meth lab."

"There's too much meth on this ship already," Spock complains. "It's our lube stores that are low."

He fixes McCoy with his usual creepy, vaguely sexual stare.

"...Um, wow. Creepy," McCoy says. "But what the hell, I'm drunk as fuck, and god I knows I never do any work around here, so..."

He gestures toward the table—hell, he's fuckbanged the Vulcan before, he can do it again—but manages instead to brush his hand against the acid-that-isn't-acid and that shit spills all over the lab table. _Fuck._

"Damn," says the doctor, watching the smoke rise from the spill and wondering if he can conceivably inhale it. "We are shockingly incompetent."

" _You_ are," Spock retorts.

"Wow, I literally can't believe you're such an asshole," McCoy says.

* * *

****

 

Reboot!Verse

 

"Doctor," Spock says, striding purposefully through the sickbay doors, "it has come to my attention that your medical acid consumption is now in excess of—" 

" _Ahhck_!" McCoy yells, dropping his PADD and covering his eyes as a burst of light reflects off the Sciences emblem on Spock's tunic and nearly blinds him. The PADD crashes down, shattering the beaker of acid and sending up a wave of crackling electricity and smoldering acid as the table is rapidly eaten away.

"Someone has _got_ to fix these lights," he groans.

"I shall make a note of it. But, as doing so will not correct my aforementioned note of the excessive acid consumption, I would request you direct your attention to—"

"Pointy-eared bastard," McCoy mumbles.

* * *


End file.
